The Wistful Ashes
The jar sat on the kitchen counter, a squat cylinder of industrial plastic filled with a substance that looked less like medicine and more like the sediment of a dried-up river. It was white, chalky, and faintly translucent, catching the harsh fluorescent light of the apartment with a dull, sickly gleam. I held it in my hands, feeling the cold weight of it, the way the label had been peeled off...
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